


All Of The Lights

by Onyxim



Category: DCU (Animated), Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Family Drama, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, LSD, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Partying, Rumors, Social Media, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-17 13:06:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5870788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onyxim/pseuds/Onyxim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce wished his life could be easy. He wished there were other ways to escape. He wished someone could understand. </p><p>But this is no fairy tale. There are no three wishes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1 - Paranoid

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by the movie "Beyond the Lights". The title was inspired by a Kanye West song that always gets me hype. c:

_It's so cold outside. Why is it so cold? It's only November,_ is the tiny, quiet thought that Bruce has that has nothing to do with his current situation.

His mind is clouded with darkness and echoing, accusatory voices from the day before.

_"Unbelievable. . .selfish. . .inconsiderate. . .insensitive!"_

His fingers tighten on the metal rail he's sitting on. He briefly considers letting the tear that had been balancing in his left eye for over five minutes finally fall. Fall, fall down ten stories and splatter on the pavement without disturbing a single soul.

He wishes it could be that easy.

The wind pushes at him dangerously and he leans forward with its insistence. _Even Fate wants this to happen,_ he decides.

The buzz of alcohol is still active in his brain, his body numb and his mind uncaring. He was going to do this.

There is a small clatter behind him. Someone has opened the sliding glass door.

"Bruce--!"

He doesn't move. He recognizes the voice, but he chooses not to move. The tear in his eye does, though, and suddenly, there are many more that follow, until there are so many tears falling from his eyes that the biting cold threatens to cause them to freeze on his face.

The person behind him stands completely still.

"Bruce, what are you doing?" The voice is shaky. Terrified.

Bruce's legs dangle precariously over the edge. A car passes by on the street below.

"Bruce, look at me."

He flinches involuntarily. _Stop calling me that. After today, I will be Bruce no more._

He stares down at the inviting concrete below.

 _Nothing to catch me but joy_.

The person inches closer, afraid of startling Bruce, like trying to get close to a bird without causing it to fly away, out of reach. "Bruce, please. Don't do this."

"Why?" The word is slow, croaked, and sounds alien even to himself.

The person says nothing. He is closer now, though, and is standing almost right next to him. The close proximity makes Bruce's heart race.

"Bruce, please don't do this. . ." he repeats, his voice calm all of a sudden. He doesn't ask why this time. He couldn't have, what with his fingers slipping, losing their grip on the metal railing.

Bruce falls half an inch, but it feels like a mile, because when the person catches him it feels like his heart drops and falls to the pavement below him.

The person is hanging onto one wrist, straining, trying to heft Bruce back up onto the balcony, and all Bruce wants to do is tell him to let him fall.

The person grunts and pulls Bruce up effortlessly, and they tumble over onto the ground of the balcony once Bruce is back over the railing. Bruce's mind is running one-hundred miles a minute.

"Bruce."

His name isn't being called; it's being said like an affirmation, a comfort.

"Bruce."

The person holds him close, pulls him into his chest, and Bruce doesn't know he's crying--no, _sobbing_ \--until there's a hand on his back and he can feel his own cold tears against the tweed jacket he's leaning into.

That was how it all started.

~×~×~×~

"Mr. Wayne! Mr. Wayne! Mr. Wayne!"

Cameras flash in his face and he flashes all the reporters and journalists a smile in return.

"Yes, yes, I know, I've got some explaining to do," he says cooly, and a few people in the audience chuckle.

"Why were you hanging from that balcony last night, Mr. Wayne?" shouts one reporter from the back. The others in the crowd look at him expectantly, pens resting against pads of paper and ready to write.

"Well," he begins after some silence, as rehearsed the night before, "as you know, I attended Kathy Well's charity event yesterday. As you also may know, I don't mind more than a few glasses of that champagne she's always serving." He winks, and the crowd laughs. "Long story short, alcohol and balconies don't mix. I don't even remember how I had gotten up there."

The cameras start flashing again, questions start to erupt, and Bruce can't understand everyone at once. There is a man with a camera hanging around his neck that's waving his hand wildly, so Bruce thinks maybe it'd be easier to get the crowd into the habit of raising their hands. "I'll take the gentleman on the right."

It eventually quiets as the man steps forward and clears his throat. "Not to be, er, intrusive, Mr. Wayne, but you were perfectly fine at the party."

Bruce's smile falters a bit, not sure where his question is going to head. "I suppose."

"In fact, I don't think you'd touched a single drop of alcohol at the party."

Bruce stiffens. He's been caught. He actually hadn't drunk any liquor until he had gotten home.

"Well, I--"

"Would this be a suicide attempt, Mr. Wayne?"

The room goes dead silent. Bruce looks positively stumped, but lucky for him, no one takes a picture of the helpless, puzzled look on his face. The last thing he needs is _that_ picture floating around along with that picture of him hanging from the balcony.

Luckily, Alfred, loyal as ever, steps up behind him and says calmly to the man, "I'm afraid Mr. Wayne will be taking no more questions at this time."

Bruce steps down from the podium with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The crowd of reporters start roaring their questions again.

"Who was holding you off the balcony, Mr. Wayne?"

"Was this really a suicide attempt?"

"Were you planning on jumping?"

With every step, Bruce feels heavier and heavier. The calls of the reporters begin to fade and he feels Alfred's hand heavy on his right shoulder as he steers him to the limo outside, through a huge gathering of people shouting their questions at him.

Bruce can only give a smile that seems more like a grimace than anything. This was bad. He couldn't let the media think that we was suicidal, even if it was. . .somewhat true. It isn't good for business or his reputation. Not to mention that it will stick around every time he tries to make a business deal. There's bound to be more questions and rumors.

Alfred opens the door for him and he slides in, leaning back against the cool leather seat and closing his eyes. He can hear the shutter of cameras outside his window, but he's grateful the windows are tinted.

A voice makes him jump and nearly hit the ceiling of the car.

"Hey, Bruce."

"Clark?" he stammers, turning and immediately meeting the royal blue eyes of his best friend. "What--what the hell are you doing here?" he hisses, going from surprised to annoyed.

"Alfred invited me."

Bruce mumbles something about firing his butler. "I don't see what for."

"I wanted to talk about yesterday," Clark says.

"Well, _I_ don't. It's over with."

"Not to _them."_ Clark looks past Bruce and out the window, where the crowd of people start heading towards the limo to take more pictures.

Alfred starts the car just in time. They avoid the press, but now Bruce can't kick Clark out of the limo. He's stuck in this conversation.

"I didn't need your help," Bruce says, but it comes out coldly and harsh.

Clark's face changes a bit, from worry to irritation. "Obviously you did! You could have died!" Clark says, exasperated already.

"So?" Bruce challenges.

"If I wasn't there, who would have been there to catch you?"

"Who said I wanted to be caught?" is Bruce's sharp response. It's said before he can stop himself, and they're both surprised.

Clark goes silent.

Bruce turns and looks out the window, watches the Gotham scenery fly by. He catches his own reflection in the glass. He looks weary, his face haggard with hints of stubble on his chin. He sees Clark's face, too, staring down at his hands with an unreadable expression.

"So. . .it's true then?" Clark asks softly.

"What?" Bruce deadpans, not turning away from the window.

"What the press has been saying."

Bruce doesn't affirm this, but he doesn't deny it either.

The silence continues.

Alfred pulls to the Manor about fifteen minutes later. Bruce lets himself out of the car, walks right up to the doors of his home and slams them shut behind him. In the car, Clark watches Bruce stomp away.

He starts to ask Alfred, "Why would he even. . ."

"That's the question we have all been asking ourselves lately, sir," Alfred says, but his voice is somewhat distant as he watches his surrogate son slam the Manor doors.

Clark has nothing to say to that. Instead, he continues to stare at the Manor. His superhearing picks up the clinking of glass and something pouring. He sighs and runs a hand through his black hair.

_Bruce. . .what's going on with you?_


	2. Chapter 2 - W.T.H. (Way Too High)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Club lights, liquor, and a smiley-face sticker.

Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to drink before coming here.

His body is already too hot. It was hot before he'd arrived. It was hot at the Manor. But it didn't stop him from ordering more. The man at the bar raises his eyebrows at him every time he lifts his hand up for a refill, but doesn't dare tell him to slow down, because he knows exactly who Bruce is.

The music booms around him, giving the building life as its walls vibrate with the bass. People are crowded together, bodies against bodies to this song Bruce has heard before but has never really been fond of, until now.

He gets up from the bar and dances with various people, particularly men, who put their hands all over him and try to touch him in places that sent rivulets of heat down his spine but he pulls off of them, sends them a teasing smirk and saunters away, leaving them wanting more.

His body is numb but it's a good feeling, almost like he's floating. He almost doesn't notice when a man a about a year older than him plants a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Hey," he says, his breath reeking of weed and alcohol. "You look like you need a pick-me-up. Here. Have one of these."

In his palm lays a sticker with a smiley face on it.

"What is it?" Bruce asks dumbly.

Except he knows exactly what it is. A gang had been selling them on the streets to teenagers after school. He--or rather, Batman put an end to that about three years ago. It makes him wonder how much the man had to pay to get ahold of even _one_ of them.

But, in his drunken state, he could care less.

"Hell if I know," the guy says, shrugging his shoulders lazily, and Bruce had almost forgotten he'd asked a question in the first place. "Guy in the VIP section told me to hand 'em out. I'm just doin' what he said."

Bruce notices that this man is quite handsome. Striking green eyes and shiny blonde hair that is spiked at the top. Someone had spilled alcohol on his black shirt.

"What am I supposed to do with it?"

The guy squints his eyes at him. "I think--I think you're supposa put it on your tongue?" His words are slurred. Bruce wonders how he sounds himself. "Here, just open your mouth."

Bruce obliges, opening his mouth and sticking his tongue out. The man puts his fingers on Bruce's chin and tilts his head up. The sticker balancing on his index finger, he places it on Bruce's tongue. He lets his fingers brush against Bruce's lips when he pulls them away.

Bruce closes his mouth, the sticker resting against his tongue. It starts to dissolve almost immediately. The taste is bitter and sharp and he almost spits it back out.

"Hey, I never got your name," the man says suddenly.

Bruce smiles. "'M Bruce. What. . .what about you?"

The man flashes Bruce a lopsided grin. "My name's Barry."

~×~×~×~

The night is a blur after that. He and Barry dance to the next few songs, Bruce's back against Barry's chest. The lights around him smear like paint, the people are blobs and leave trails of light whenever they move, and Barry is the only being that is clear in his vision.

His body is hot but still numb, yet every time Barry's skin makes contact with his, it's like a fire brand.

The music is warped and loud in his ears. There's a slight ringing in his right ear, and he feels like he's been riding a rollercoaster for the past hour.

All in all, it's _great_.

He's happy, giddy, delighted with the events taking place. Barry is saying things in his ear, breath ghosting against his neck, and it feels like an adrenaline rush.

Suddenly they're both stumbling out of one club and to the next. He barely remembers the darkness outside. One moment, he's surrounded by the blue lights of the club he had originally shown up to, the next he's intrigued by the flashing white lights of another, with different, explicit music, different smells.

Barry is feeling up and down his sides, hands slipping up Bruce's shirt to brush his thumbs along his ribcage. Bruce remembers his various scars but decides to ignore it. Revels in the feeling of Barry caressing and groping.

Barry's got a joint in his hand now. The smoke is bittersweet and intense and it makes Bruce dizzy as it floods his nostrils.

Barry takes a deep inhale, pulls the joint away from his lips, and leans towards Bruce. Bruce meets him halfway, mouth pressing against Barry's, and Barry eases his lips open with his tongue and exhales the smoke into Bruce's mouth. He almost chokes, but makes himself relax as the smoke is inhaled into his lungs. Colors explode behind his eyelids, his can almost feel his pupils widening to black, his senses sharpen and he's aware of every inch of his clothing against him.

Barry grins wickedly, and a small group of people whoop excitedly, wolf-whistling and cheering them on. Bruce sighs as Barry places his hands low on Bruce's hips. He leans up and whispers, "My place or yours?"

Words slow and sensual like the song currently pulsing around them. Barry nips at Bruce's neck in response, moves his hands down a little lower, resting on his ass. "Doesn't matter," Barry whispers back, pulls Bruce close against him and pushed his hips into his. "I need you. Now."

They settle for a hotel across the street. Bruce doesn't even sign in, just slaps his credit card down on the counter and pulls Barry into the elevator down the hallway, up to the first floor with the honeymoon suites, and into his private room.

He closes the door and when he turns, Barry pounces, pushing Bruce against the wall and ravishing his mouth, all tongue and teeth and hands.

Bruce wraps his legs around his waist, arms hooked around Barry's neck. Every time their lips make contact, there's an explosion of heat at the base of Bruce's spine and a flutter of excitement in his chest. His eyes are flooded with colors, the emerald of Barry's eyes, the red he sees when Barry nips and sucks on the spot below Bruce's ear, and then the white of the sheets when they both collapse onto the bed, clothes dispersed throughout the room.

Their sex is nowhere near quiet. The headboard bangs against the wall, Bruce's mouth is open with moans and filthy sighs and pleas, the steady _slap slap slap_ of skin on skin echoes off the walls and Barry groans with him, both of their heightened senses making them feel _every_ movement, every touch, every spark of pleasure.

And when Bruce comes, he's arching high off the bed, his high-pitched shout spiraling up towards the heavens, fireworks exploding in front of his eyes and his ears ringing loudly.

He immediately passes out.


	3. Chapter 3 - Novocaine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Novocaine, baby, baby  
> Novocaine, baby, I want you  
> Fuck me good, fuck me long, fuck me numb  
> Love me now, when I'm gone, love me none  
> Love me none  
> Love me none  
> Numb, numb, numb, numb. . .
> 
> -Frank Ocean, "Novocane"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why does everyone have such a problem with Barry, omfg. Calm down, people. In the spur of the moment I didn't have anyone else to use as a name/character. Barry'll be essential in the story later. 
> 
> Plus, y'all don't /really/ know what was going on with him. . . I'm actually glad I picked him because it'll make the story all the more dramatic. c:

It's pain that awakens Bruce abruptly.

His immediate response is to groan and curl in on himself. It feels like there's an elephant sitting on his head and his whole body is trembling, sweat dots his forehead and his hands shake. Odd colors swirl behind his eyelids.

He is absolutely, positively, numb.

After a few moments he sits up and opens his eyes, the room tilting with him. He leans forward on his knees and groans again, blinking rapidly, so the unfamiliar expanse of the floor doesn't swirl. When his vision clears up a bit, he looks around. This isn't his bedroom at the Manor. Those aren't his clothes on the floor (some of them, maybe).

He doesn't have to be the world's greatest detective to figure out why.

Bruce grunts and pulls himself off the bed, swiping his boxers off the floor a few inches in front of him and pulling them on.

There's a hoarse groan behind him.

Bruce freezes.

"What?" is the first thing out of the person's mouth. The bed shifts and Bruce gets up and scrambles away from the bed, chest heaving and eyes wide. He meets the surprised eyes of a blonde man.

An extremely naked blonde man.

Who still hasn't realized that he's naked.

"Who are you?" they both ask in unison.

"Wait, _wait,_ aren't you Bruce Wayne?" The man says, frowning.

Bruce nods uncertainly.

". . .why was I in bed with Bruce Wayne?" His eyes got wide with horror. "Why was I in bed with _a man?!"_

"You're asking me like _I_  know," Bruce replies, a bit irritated. He literally can't remember the last twelve hours and that bothers him. He knows he had Alfred drop him off somewhere, he knows it was loud, he vaguely remembers flashing lights. Did he address the press again? Then how'd he end up with. . .Barney? Barley?

The man--Barry!--groans again and sits up in the bed, running a hand over his face. "Iris is going to skin me alive," he mumbles.

It's Bruce's turn to frown. "Iris?"

"My _wife,"_  Barry says, his arm flopping down to his side in defeat. Bruce catches sight of a shiny ring on Barry's left hand.

"You're _married?"_ He asks the question but he already knows the answer.

"Hence the wedding ring." Barry winces. "That still doesn't explain how I wound up _here."_

Bruce can't help but feel somewhat hurt, the connection he thought he felt with Barry dissolving and falling away.

Barry's eyebrows come together with thought. "I think. . .I think we were in a fight, Iris and I. . ." He trails off, thinks some more. "I ended up at a club, spent all the money I had in my pocket on drinks. . ." He nods. "I think that's some of what happened." He looks at Bruce. "What about you?"

Bruce grimaces. "I haven't the slightest idea. I know I was drinking again, but I know the shaking and the sweating are after effects of something else." There are shameful undertones in his voice. The weight of what he did is heavy on his mind, and he knows he'll have to face Alfred when he returns home.

Barry gets up from the bed to find his clothes. "You know. . .don't blame yourself for what's happened. We were both pretty irresponsible, okay?" Barry pulls on his shirt and meets eyes with Bruce. Shining emerald to sterling blue. "I know Iris'll have my head, but my choices were my choices. None of it was your fault, Bruce."

Somehow, Bruce doubts that. He just looks at the floor. His hands are still shaking but he's pretty sure it's not from whatever drug he'd gotten his hands on. He feels so ashamed of himself. He's not twenty years old anymore--that was over ten years ago. He can't do things like this like he used to. He has certain people to think about. Dick, Alfred, Damian, Tim. . .

Jason, _Clark._

His heart flutters.

He hasn't talked to Clark in almost a week. Hasn't left the house, either. What had suddenly set him off again?

Barry walks up to Bruce and hands him a small card with his full name on it and his number. Bruce sees the glitter of light on Barry's wedding ring before he sees the card put into his palm.

"It's my, uh, my work card. I work at a forensics lab." Barry looks away with some embarrassment. "Look, I know people've been hard on you these past few days. I've seen what they've been saying about you. If you ever need to talk. . .you can call me."

Bruce stares at the card between his fingertips. He doesn't feel Barry hug him goodbye and he doesn't hear the "Take care of yourself, Bruce," that's whispered in his ear. He doesn't see him leave the hotel room. He doesn't notice that he's trembling harder than before.

Bruce drops the card on the floor and takes off towards the bathroom, where he collapses to his knees in front of the toilet and vomits. Alcohol and Alfred's rotisserie chicken sandwiches and probably a few of his organs. He heaves for what feels like hours until finally he stumbles back against the wall with his hand against his mouth, shaking and panting. He doesn't know whether the tears are involuntary or not. The room is swirling again and there's a high possibility he's going to pass out.

Bruce takes a shaky deep breath and manages to get himself standing. He leans over to flush the toilet and move to the sink to rinse his mouth out. He staggers out of the bathroom and falls down onto the bed, stomach still clenching and his body trembling again. The coolness of the sheets is his only comfort.

 _Zzzt. Zzzt. Zzzt_.

His phone vibrates on the nightstand. He almost doesn't reach out to grab it. Doesn't bother looking at the caller ID, knows it's probably Alfred or Dick--

"Bruce?" What he isn't expecting is Clark's soft voice.

"Bruce, are you there? Alfred and Dick have been worried sick, they've been calling me all morning, and--"

"Clark," he chokes out before he can stop himself.

Clark stops. "Yes?"

The guilt wells up behind his eyes and his breathing picks up pace.

"Clark," Bruce repeats and suddenly there are tears rolling down his face and for the second time he's crying in front of his best friend.

"Bruce, are you okay?! Where are you? I'm coming to get you. Hold on."

He feels sick again.

Bruce drops the phone to the bed and curls in on himself. Perhaps if he makes himself smaller, Clark won't see him in such a vulnerable state. Perhaps he'll finally disappear into nothing. It could be that easy.

He hears Clark frantically calling his name through the phone's speaker, but he makes no move to answer him. Just burrows further into the mattress of the hotel bed where he and Barry had sex.

 _Clark_.

He feels like a traitor, but he doesn't know why. He feels that, if Clark were to ever find out, he would be crushed. He knows he wouldn't. What does Clark have to be crushed about? It doesn't matter. It's not his business, anyway. It's not.

Bruce still can't help the guilt that weighs heavily on his shoulders.

The door to the hotel room opens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wonder why Bruce was so guilty. . .hmm. . .


End file.
